


Slaves And Heirs

by NikkiDeez



Category: Hidden Legacy Series - Ilona Andrews
Genre: F/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:00:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29116392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NikkiDeez/pseuds/NikkiDeez
Summary: Elena Madero is what is known as a Gremlin. Able to cover herself with indestructible metal armor, she figured she'd find a job easily enough. Turns out her family had a bad reputation of botching jobs. Having left the army, and not wanting to work for her idiot cousins, Elena knew that she needed a job. Any job. So when an old flame, Abraham "Bug," Levin, told her about a protection job, Elena leapt at the chance. Little did she know that the job was for Huston's most powerful couple... Conner "Mad," Rogan, and his new bride, Nevada Baylor. Yep. Life sucks, right? Right.
Relationships: Augustine Montgomery/Original Female Character(s), Nevada Baylor/Connor "Mad" Rogan
Kudos: 6





	Slaves And Heirs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elena meets the Rogans... and apparently makes them nervous. Who knew?

I always hated job interviews. Not because they scared me. Not because they made me nervous. It was because, no matter what the job entailed, and no matter who was the interviewee, I always knew one specific truth; _I was the deadliest thing in the room._ No matter what.

I sat in an armchair and tried very hard not to fidget, seated in a room that must have been some kind of library. Books filling various wood bookshelves lined the walls, and I ignored the urge to get up and read over the titles, some in English, others in Spanish. The chair was comfortable enough, plush, and covered in soft, brown leather. It was one of those kinds of pieces of furniture that you knew had lasted the test of time. It must have been ancient, the leather worn to the point that it was soft to the touch, all velvety suppleness. Most people would love sitting in it. I hated it. Soft and I were never placed in the same category. One look at me, and you’d quickly reach the same conclusion.

To some people, I looked like your average woman. I wasn’t unattractive. Tall, with long legs and arms, and ample curves, as well as very muscular, but not to the point that I looked like some hulking bodybuilder. I had what most would call an ‘ethnic,’ bone structure. Large almond-shaped eyes, a long aquiline nose, and large, wide lips. The rest of me though… wasn’t average. Why? Because I looked like I broke people for a living. My wavy mahogany brown hair was cut short, shoulder-length, and it was also half shaved on the left side which made it stand out. My amber-brown eyes were decked out in black shadow, which was the only kind of makeup I used. My face, chest, and arms were covered with various scars, some old, some fresh. And then there were the tattoos and pierces. Two sleeves covered my arms, and my ears were lined with simple gold hoops. Yeah. Not your average looking girl.

The job was a simple one. Family bodyguard. I had got hook up through an old friend of mine. Bug was an old flame of mine. We used to hook up, back in the day. He’d been the one that had talked me up. Too bad he wasn’t there now. It would have been nice, especially right now. Why? Because I felt like I was on display. I could feel their eyes watching me, studying me. And, even though I had placed myself in a position to be studied, I still bristled under their scrutiny. Sighing, I waited, counting the seconds in my head, letting everyone take their time, their eyes going to me and then back to the pieces of paper they held in their hand.

And so I sat there, trying not to fidget, and waited.

Needless to say, I probably wasn’t what they’d been expecting. I never was. Probably had something to do with my surname. Madero. It always stood out. _Unfortunately_.

“So. Elena. Let me get this straight… _you’re_ a Madero?” the blond woman spoke up, and I turned in my seat to face her, feeling bored. Nevada Baylor. Head of House Baylor. Truth-seeker. Married to Connor Rogan, head of House Rogan. Telekinetic. All scary. All Primes. And all of them staring at me like I was some kind of freak.

I fought the eye roll. This was going to be a long fucking interview. “Yes.” I replied, keeping my words short and to the point. “On my father’s side. My uncle is Peter Madero, head of House Madero. My father is Marcos Madero, Peter’s younger brother.”

A throat cleared, and I turned to face its source. Mad Rogan was glaring at me. Seated next to his bride, he watched me, and once again, I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “You do know that your cousins tried to kill us, right? Twice.” he growled, his glare supposedly terrifying.

I sighed. Here we go. “Yes, I know. A year and a half ago, just before Strum’s attack on Huston.” I replied. Then I shrugged. “It was a popular topic of discussion last thanksgiving.”

Baylor and Rogan glanced at one another, clearly confused. “But you want to work for us? Why?” Nevada finally asked.

I sighed, and fidgeted in the plushy leather seat, feeling it. My body, specifically my skin. It rippled, and I could feel it. My magic. It wanted to come out, and make me safe. I fought the urge, and gave the woman a simple shrug. “Simple. I need the job.” I replied.

Mad Rogan sat up at that and glowered. “And what makes you think we’d hire you?”

I tilted my head to the side, studying him. This was a guy who clearly was very used to people being scared of him. Well, he was the Butcher of Merida, after all. Most people did get scared of such lofty titles. But then again I wasn’t most people. “Because I’m the best candidate for the job. My resume should tell you as much.”

Nevada looked at the papers, her own eyes narrowing. “It just says here that you’re ex-military, and that your powers are marked as ‘unregistered.’ That’s not much to go on.”

“And none of the other Houses know about you.” Rogan added, his voice hard, and I fought a smirk. He probably didn’t like the fact that he couldn’t find much on me. Figures. Most Type-A personalities didn’t like the loss of control or command over a given situation, and he clearly was one of those kinds of people; controlling, commanding, masculine, arrogant. Ugh. Typical fucking macho headed prime. How… boring.

I nodded. “Yes, I know what it says. My powers had been hidden away from the Assembly for my own protection. My parents were worried about me getting sent to some lab. I’m an unregistered Significant, possibly a Prime. I’m planning on going to my trials later, should the family need me to, once my uncle dies.”

Nevada blinked. Not once, but twice. “A dark horse?” she murmured, glancing at her husband, who mirrored her gaze.

Rogan’s blue eyes met hers and then narrowed. “Why?” he asked.

I sighed again, and with that I got to my feet, seeing there was no way around it. They needed to see my powers in action. “It’s probably easier if I showed you.” I murmured. Then, after I got a nod, I reached up, pulling off my jacket. I’d come dressed comfortably. Black jeans, black boots, black tank top, and my favorite black leather jacket. Needless to say, I like black. It was easy to clean because it didn’t stain easily. Plus it matched my nickname. Most people see me and think ‘dumb Goth girl.’ It was a disguise. A disguise I used to my advantage. Let people see what they wanted to see. It clearly obfuscated the very deadly truth of who and what I was. After putting my jacket on the chair, I then gave them a minute, ignoring the stares, knowing that they were staring at the tattoos. They were looking at what looked like two black dragons wrapped around my arms, their long, serpentine bodies molding them. If they only knew what those dragons really signified. In reality they were artistic depictions of Arawn and Ankou. Ankou was a servant of death, and in Welsh mythology, Arawn was the king of the otherworld.

I wore death on my arms, because that was exactly what they dished out. Death.

With all eyes on me, I closed my eyes and felt it. The hum of magic. It sizzled in my blood. I gave it a tug, breaking the dam, and I felt _it_ happen. The change was instantaneous. My body shifted, my skin jerking, suddenly feeling tighter, heavier. Opening my eyes, I looked up, and smiled, knowing what they were seeing. One moment I was 5’8. The next? I was 6’8, and what replaced my skin. Wasn’t what they had expected. The Madero gift was a gift of crafting armor. My magic took that premise, however, and went to the land of ‘overkill.’ Armor didn’t cover it. When in use of their magic, my cousins and my grandfather’s skin turned red, and took on the shape and pallor of smooth marble. Mine, however, was… different.

“Is that… metal?” Rogan asked, and I made sure to watch his lips. If I hadn’t I wouldn’t have been able to hear him.

I nodded. “Yes,” I said, hearing my voice. It sounded… distant. When I wore my armor, I always had issues with hearing. Sound waves didn’t transmute as well to my eardrums. The same went for smell. “It covers everything, even my eyes.”

Nevada was staring at me, a hand lifting, almost as if she wanted to touch it, the implications no doubt running through her head. Unafraid, I took a step forward and lifted my hand, letting her touch my bicep, watching as her fingers ran up my now cold, metallic, grey skin, unable to feel her as she ran them down my arm. “What is it?” she whispered, awed, pulling her hand away.

Knowing that Rogan was watching my every move, I spun around and lifted my arms, taking the time to move around, my booted feet thudding against the wood floors. Not only had my body grown in size, I was also substantially heavier, going from weighing around one sixty to over four hundred pounds. “My armor is different from my cousins. You can compare theirs to some sort of stone, maybe marble. It can crack and break under the right kind of pressure. That’s why Mr. Rogan was able to break my cousin’s arms. Mine and my fathers is different. It’s arcane in nature, and it’s a sort of metal that doesn’t match any elements on our periodic table. It allows me to breathe and sweat, so I don’t tire as easily as they do. In this form, I’m just as fast as I usually am, but I’m pretty much indestructible. Bullets. Fire. Acid. I haven’t met something that can break through, yet. I’m also stronger. The last time I tested it, I was able to lift over a metric ton. It also apparently makes me resistant to other forms of energy, including psionic.” I gave Baylor a glance. “You’re truth shit won’t work on me right now. Feel free to try.” I told her, this getting another blink, Nevada staring at me for a minute, the woman then turned to look at her husband.

“She’s right. The second she changed, I couldn’t tell whether she’s lying or not. It feels like she’s not even there. Like her mind is covered, in well… armor. It’s like trying to read a wall.”

“What’s the catch?” Rogan asked, getting to his feet, the Mad Rogan walking around me, his eyes narrowed in thought… and I sighed, knowing that all of a sudden he was worried. He had thought that he was the most dangerous thing in the room… and now he was realizing that he wasn’t. _I_ was.

I stood still, letting the man known as _Huracan_ study me. It wasn’t the first time I’d gone through this level of scrutiny. I had weekly tests ever since I had manifested. “Sensory. I don’t hear as well, or smell much, when the armor is on.” I then made a face. “That’s why a lot of people think the Madero’s are stupid, especially when we’re armored. Kind of hard to connect with others when you have trouble hearing them… feeling them. Because we can’t.” I explained, seeing Rogan open his mouth to argue, and I lifted a hand to ward off the complaints I already knew were coming. “Don’t get me wrong, bro. I know that my cousins were fucking idiots when they thought they could take you on. My uncle isn’t exactly the brightest bulb either.”

Rogan looked over at his wife, looking almost amused. “Did she just call me ‘bro’?” he asked her. I simply stood there, waiting, starting to feel bored.

“A humble Madero.” Nevada quipped. “I should take a picture.”

I snorted, starting to feel annoyed. They were not getting it, where they? “Don’t get it twisted, sister.” I snapped at her, and I watched as Rogan’s eyes went from amused to murderous in a heartbeat. “If you’d gone up against me, and instead of my cousins, I would have broken your husband into several pieces, and I would have snapped your neck before you had a chance to use those shockers of yours.” I said simply, my tone cold, honest, this getting a stare. Then I turned to give the Butcher of Merida a savage smile, flexing, knowing he was bristling at the challenge he saw there. “Yeah, you heard me Blue Eyes. Care to try me?”

For a minute the two of us stared at one another, me waiting, watching, ready, him staring at me, his blue eyes calculating, while Nevada looked on, his wife actually looking… worried. Why? Because she knew, that even without the use of her gifts, that I hadn’t been lying. If it’d been me, instead of Dave, Frank, or Roger, neither would have survived the encounter.

Connor Rogan seemed to be many things. Prideful. Powerful. Arrogant. But apparently, he wasn’t stupid. Instead of taking the challenge, he looked at me, and then his eyes shifted to the papers. And I knew what he was reading. The list of military incursions I’d been in. His list was longer then mine… but his list was also very different. Rogan was a breaker of cities. The military used him as the human equivalent of dropping a nuke… destructive, yes, but also not exactly tactical in nature. I’d been used similarly, and with something more specific in mind. He might be the destroyer of cities, but my missions had focused on one thing only; to end lives.

“You were in Panama?” he asked carefully.

I nodded once. “And later Mexico. I went in after you left.” I answered. Then I gave the coup-de-grace and told Rogan what he needed to hear. “I was a cleaner, sir. The military sent me in to clean house after you nuked a place. My classification was ‘La Muerte.’ I have one hundred and eighty-two kills. Officially. Unofficially… it’s higher.” I said simply. And I let the truth of my words hang in the air. Baylor and Rogan stared at me, realization settling in. They’d just let Death into their house. Death was in the room with them. And then I smiled. “So. Did I get the job?” I asked.

I usually hated job interviews. Not because they scared me. Not because they made me nervous. It was because, no matter what the job entailed, and no matter who was the interviewee, I always knew one specific truth; _I was the deadliest thing in the room._ No matter what. And today I had managed to make two of Huston’s most powerful Primes nervous. Life was good.


End file.
